


Playing Pool

by oOAchilliaOo



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 05:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10633176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oOAchilliaOo/pseuds/oOAchilliaOo
Summary: The crew go to a games bar for Traynor’s birthday. Kaidan plays pool with her. Shepard ends up…distracted.





	

Typically speaking, Commander Shepard did not, as a general rule, set herself up to fail. In fact, it would be fair to say that, in most situations, she put a lot of time and forethought into making sure she wasn’t setting herself up to fail.

But she had to admit that in this particular instance, this particular fall back plan had blown up in her face rather spectacularly.

In fairness, she didn’t see how she could have predicted this, since there was no earthly reason why watching him playing pool should have been so god damned sexy. Seriously? Who looked sexy playing pool?

Kaidan Fucking Alenko apparently. 

Bastard.

It was supposed to have been a failsafe manoeuvre, in case Apollo’s went spectacularly sideways. A way of forcing them into the same room, with other people present, so they could immediately work on the new dynamic of their relationship, before that awful gaping emptiness that had existed between them ever since she’d returned had a chance to grow any larger.

It was Traynor’s birthday. Not a big one, but they just so happened to be docked at the Citadel, and they all just so happened to have some time on their hands. So Traynor had asked if any of them would like to go to a little bar she knew down in the wards, for a few games, a few drinks and a little bit of r & r.

In principle, scheduling their dinner several hours beforehand had been a stroke of brilliance. If it went badly they’d have each had a few hours to mend their broken hearts before being thrown together again. If it went well they’d have had a few hours to have a damn good tumble in her sheets before they had to appear respectable.

At least that had been the plan, before he’d well and truly scuppered it.

‘Nice try. Our drinks are here, and I wanna take my time.’

Take his time indeed.

In fairness to him, she didn’t think that he was actually trying to be sexy. From past experience, him trying to be sexy either resulted in success, and a melted puddle of gooey pliant Shepard or else he was adorably cute about it and she fell in love with him just that little bit more.

This was neither. This was just… hot.

The bar was an actual bar, rather than a club. There was no heavy techno beat pounding against the eardrums, just a quiet faint warble that was easily talked over. There was a bar, a dartboard, a couple of pool tables, holo-interfaces for a game she didn’t know and didn’t care to know, a few quasar machines and one game she couldn’t even see because of the press of cheering Krogan around it.

Traynor had looked so excited when she walked in, her gleeful eyes taking in the variety of games before her. She had waited only the time it took for Shepard to buy them all a drink before challenging anyone to any game.

Unfortunately for her, everyone had learned that playing Traynor at virtually any game usually ended in humiliating defeat. Particularly humiliating because, while Traynor had many admirable qualities, being a gracious winner was not among them. Shepard still remembered her crowing over her chess victory in her cabin.

But bless her, the poor much put-upon lab assistant who had somehow ended up being a massive front line asset, had looked so forlorn that Shepard had been on the verge of offering herself up as a sacrifice in a game of darts (a game she had a least a 30% chance of winning due to her impeccable hand/eye co-ordination skills). However, before she could voice the thought another stepped in to take her place.

It came as no surprise to her that pool was his chosen game. It was the type of thing that people like Samantha Traynor and Kaidan Alenko excelled at, while people like Commander Shepard and James Vega completely failed at. It was all calculating angles and trajectories at a glance, while also ensuring that the exact correct force was exerted on the exact right spot at the exact right time.

Ever the gentleman he’d let Traynor break, and at first the entire situation had been entirely bearable. He had been leant against the wall beside her, cue braced against his shoulder in the crook of his arm, one thumb hooked into the pocket of his BDU’s, the other loosely cradling his beer. Their shoulders, where she lent beside him arms folded across her chest, had been millimetres apart. Close enough for her to feel the resonance of his biotics vibrating pleasantly with her own. She’d been itching to touch him. Close those millimetres between them so she could feel the spike in his biotics as they touched, then the warmth of his bicep pressed against her own.

They were in company, so she didn’t, but his nearness was a kind of pleasant, delicious torture. She’d risked a glance sideways at him once or twice, only to find his attention entirely taken up with the table as Traynor had contorted herself about it making her shots.

As Traynor’s cue hit the ball for perhaps the eighth or ninth time, she heard him suck in a breath and she wasn’t sure how, but somehow he must have known that her shot was off. Sure enough, moments later her striped ball bounced off the pocket. 

Traynor had pouted, but had stepped aside as Kaidan pushed himself, almost casually, off their wall. He balanced his half-finished bottle on the side of the table and started to pace around it.  
She watched his beautiful whiskey-coloured eyes glitter with intelligence as he examined the table. She couldn’t be sure, but she had a strong suspicion, that if she could see inside his head the spaces between the balls would be filling with imaginary lines and angles, as he solved mathematical calculations by the side.

Once or twice he paused in his pacing, bending down just enough to view the line horizontally before shaking his head and moving on. Eventually he bent one final time, gave a little grunt of satisfaction, and stood to line up his shot.

And that was when she realised she was in trouble.

He leaned forward, bracing himself on one outstretched hand, which caused his shirt to pull taut over his form. Her eyes were immediately caught by the increased definition of his abdominals, hovering as they were an inch or so above the surface of the table. Of their own accord, her eyes travelled to where the materials was pulled tight across his back, which virtually rippled as he lifted the cue, and then down past his well-defined bicep to the single hand resting on the green felt.

She wasn’t sure if his hands had always been that way, or if it was something about the green felt and little pool balls, but for some reason his hand looked so large resting there. God, she remembered so clearly, so god damned clearly, what it had been like having those hands on her skin. Oh, and it had been her skin, his hands had always felt like they’d been everywhere at once, one holding fast at her hip, positioning her exactly where he’d wanted her, while the other had swept down her neck, between her breasts, then over them, before sweeping lower across the taut plane of her abdomen, his touch so light but burning all the same.

He lifted the cue, sliding it along the plane of his body to balance it carefully between the raised thumb and forefinger of his outstretched hand.

It shouldn’t have been sexy, the concentration on his face shouldn’t have been sexy. But it reminded her of those times that he’d seemed determined to drive her to the brink of insanity, or hell, probably over, by playing her like some finely tuned instrument, completely at the behest of those clever dexterous talented fingers.

Fuck, she needed to stop thinking like this or she might very well find herself doing something ridiculous. Like flipping him around, pushing him down onto the table and fucking him senseless in front of everyone.

Which now that she thought about it…

No.

She watched him make his shot, appreciating the way the quick jerk of the cue made the bicep of his other arm bunch pleasantly, revealing the tell-tale strength that lay within. She was completely unsurprised when the spotted ball glided into the pocket.

From her chair at the back of the room, Traynor huffed in frustration and slumped in her seat. Kaidan allowed himself the smallest of satisfied smiles and moved round to the other side of the table. This time he was quicker choosing his shot, and barely a few moments later he was once again bending over the table.

It seemed that repetition did nothing to halt the flood of desire that coursed through her as he leaned forward, balanced himself on that one outstretched arm, his shirt pulled tight, his muscles moving fluidly, as he raised the cue, lined up the shot and tapped the ball.

Once again, it glided into its pocket.

And again, Traynor huffed, Kaidan smiled and Shepard considered the very real possibly that she might just melt before his game was through.

He moved round the table again, this time taking a little longer to choose. He ended up at her side of the table with his back to her. She breathed a small sigh of relief. At least this way she wouldn’t be able to see his hands, or his arms or that deliciously attractive, intense expression. At least this time she might be alright.

She had, however, forgotten to take one important asset into consideration.

Namely, Kaidan Alenko’s absolutely spectacular, breathtakingly beautiful, ass.

She might have actually gasped as he bent over the table, she couldn’t be sure. It certainly seemed like she’d forgotten how to breathe. His ass was, of course, something to behold in pretty much any situation; in armour, in civilian clothing, naked. Naked was probably best. But she couldn’t deny that the angle currently being presented, as he bent over the pool table right in front of her, was definitely worthy of her top five.

God, how was it that she remembered so much about him, about them, yet she seemed to have somehow forgotten just how unutterably perfect his ass was? Round and pert and toned and so wonderfully wonderfully visible as the cloth of his BDUs tightened about it.

She was pretty sure she didn’t breathe again until after he’d made the shot and moved on. At least, she assumed he made the shot purely on the basis of the fact that Traynor didn’t rise to take his place. She had, after all, been in no fit state to actually watch the shot. She breathed a small sigh of relief once he’d moved but it was short lived, as in three strides he was back around the other side of the table and lining up another shot.

God, in heaven how many times was she to be subjected to this torture and from how many angles?

As it turned out, eight. Eight shots from eight different angles. She was only saved from jumping him and taking him on the table (because it was the nearest available surface), or dragging him back to her cabin on the Normandy (whether he wanted to go or not), by the fact that the rest of her crew noticed that someone seemed to have half a chance of actually beating Traynor. Once they’d gathered around the table she was somewhat saved. From some angles he was even partially obscured as he made the shots.

Thank God.

In any case, in eight shots he’d won the game, to the cheers of most of the team and to a very sour-faced looking Traynor. The crew congratulated him on achieving the impossible, Garrus thumped him on the back, Tali virtually bounced with delight, and Liara hugged him. It was all very joyous, right up until Traynor rose from her seat and demanded that someone else play another game with her so she could win back her honour. Then, they scattered.

He was chuckling to himself as he watched their crew hide from Traynor while he almost absentmindedly reset the balls. It was a moment or two before he noticed that she hadn’t moved. His eyes flickered up to meet hers for the briefest of moments and she wasn’t sure how much he could read in her expression but whatever he saw had a smile quirking at the corner of his lips.

“Care for a game, Shepard?” he asked, returning his attention to lining the triangular set square with the multi-coloured balls.

“I don’t know how to play pool,” she lied, making her voice a touch higher and a touch too innocent.

His glittering eyes flickered up to hers again, and this time they lingered for a long moment. He was no fool, he knew she was up to something, but she didn’t think he’d work out what she was up to.  
“I could teach you?” he said, with all the air of a man who knew he was falling into a trap, but that God help him, he wanted to get caught in the trap.

“Would you?” she replied, in that same too innocent sounding voice.

He paused for a moment, eyes narrowing as he tried to work out her game. She could literally see him trying to weigh the pros and cons.

“Of course,” he said after a moment, having clearly come to a decision. “Here.”

He handed her the cue while simultaneously sweeping away the set square. She moved to stand beside him as he started to explain the rules, something about the difference between the balls and the way one of them could win, but she wasn’t really listening. All her concentration was devoted to the much more important task of keeping her fist wrapped around the cue and moving it up and down in the most suggestive manner she could manage. He’d notice any minute now and…

“Then finally you pot the…” he trailed off, his eyes widening as he noticed what she was doing. She saw him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing delightfully as she fought to keep her expression as neutral as possible.

“I’ll break, shall I?” he said, virtually snatching the cue from her fingers. Once again, he bent over the table and sent the cue ball scooting up the table and back again to break the rack.  
“Okay,” he continued, seeming to have recovered. “There’s a shot.”

He moved her two steps to the left and pointed at where even she could see that the white and the blue striped balls were perfectly aligned with the pocket. He started to explain how to position her fingers, how to rest the cue on the join of her thumb and forefinger, et cetera, et cetera.

She had no intention of listening to him. It was stupid and she knew it was stupid and she knew it was one of those stupid god-damned clichés but maybe, maybe, if she played this right, he might just have to ‘show’ her how to do it. She bent over the table, making sure that this time her ass was just in his line of sight. She had no illusions, her ass was nowhere near as spectacular as his, but then again, he had always at least seemed more partial to hers than his own. She raised the cue and lined it along her hand, let it rest there for a moment, then deliberately let it drop to the table.

“Damn it,” she pretended to curse.

“That’s okay,” he said, ever the patient teacher. “Raise your forefinger a little.”

She did but when she tried again, somehow, the cue still slipped.

“I think you’re going to have to show me,” she said, before he could try explaining again. She could see, behind those twinkling whiskey coloured eyes, his brilliant mind trying to decide just how far into her trap he wanted to fall.

“Okay, Shepard” he said after a moment. “Okay.”

He stepped up behind her. She tried not to shiver as his stronger biotic aura clashed with her own, until the two settled against one another in that perfect, peaceful harmony that tingled against her skin. His hand fell, warm and familiar, over her own. Those dexterous fingers she had admired earlier positioned her own slender fingers, as his warm, hot, hard body rested along her back, maddeningly close but not quite touching.

Tease, she thought as she deliberately bent forwards, closer to the table. This had the added benefit of sticking her ass out against his hips. She was a little surprised to discover that his body wasn’t the only place he was hard, well, half-hard. She shifted her footing, rubbing against him, and delighted in the sharp intake of breath she heard by her ear. 

“Careful, Shepard,” he murmured into her ear, his voice low and deliciously warm and just as much a caress as his touch.

“Step up or go home, Alenko,” she dared him, her voice just as low as his.

They were both completely and utterly still for just a few moments, the only sound their laboured breathing. Then, in a blink, he’d wrapped his hand around her wrist, and with a speed she didn’t know he possessed, he had spun her around. The cue clattered onto the floor beside her as he held her, trapped between the edge of the table and his body. Close enough that she could feel every glorious inch of him against her, even down to where his hands framed her hips, even as his lips, hovered a scant centimetre or so away from her own.

“Was that a challenge, Shepard?” he asked coolly, staring into her too-close eyes.

“If it was, what are you going to do about it?” she replied just as evenly. There was no way either of them could miss, or misinterpret, the underlying tension in both their bodies.

“I have a few ideas,” he breathed as he pushed himself just that little bit closer, so that their lips were almost almost touching. She could so easily close the distance, but she wouldn’t, not yet.

“Thought you wanted to take your time,” she replied, deliberately goading him.

“Yeah, well,” he breathed, closing the distance between them a millimetre at a time. “To hell with that.” His mouth finally finally slammed down onto hers.


End file.
